Messing at Hogwarts, Sherlock style
by WhoLockHead11
Summary: A series of One-shots or short stories. Sherlock and John as teenage wizards, pre-harry. Just random stuff that I like to write about! They are sort of kind of related. Little bit of angst here and there, lots of Quidditch, spells and homework, hopefully some fun too. Reasonably light hearted :)
1. Story 1

Flicking through his copy of advanced potion-making, John wondered yet again where the hell Sherlock was. He glanced around the lamp-lit library for the hundredth time, searching the shadows for the familiar long, angular figure with the dark, messy hair. Looking out the snow encrusted window into the darkness, he saw his own pale reflection peering tiredly back at him, his hair was sticking up, courtesy of the many times he had run his hands through it this evening and the bags under his eyes were massive and shadowy. He looked a mess. Trying to steer his thoughts away from the lovely, warm, soft bed waiting for him upstairs he picked up his quill again and re-read his last sentence: _Therefore, without pomegranate juice the frogs eyes do not infuse correctly with…_ He had completely lost his train of thought, why was he so tired? It was only a Tuesday; the thought of three more days like this made him want to curl up under the table and curse everyone who came near him. Pomegranate juice…. What about it? He'd just written a foot and a half about its properties, he was on the conclusion - that was good at least. All he needed to do was a couple more sentences then he would be free to go to bed, but for the life of him he couldn't seem to get his brain to focus.

'Powdered ginger-root.'

'Wha…what?!' John gasped, almost falling out of his chair in shock. 'Sherlock! Oh, where were you?' He rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his hair yet again, trying to blink the tiredness from his eyes.

'I was busy. You look dreadful.' The tall, pale Ravenclaw commented drily, pulling John's essay toward him and scribbling in the last few lines. John looked at him in shock,

'Why are you doing that?' He gasped. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him.

'Because it's fairly obvious you're not going to get it finished tonight and in an estimated, oh… five minutes you're going to be fast asleep no matter where you are.'

'But my writing. It'll be different and you know what McGonagall's like.'

'John. Don't worry, copying your handwriting is child's play. And god knows how many times I've done it before.'

John gazed at him blearily, his sleep deprived brain processing this slowly. 'You...you've…of course you have.' He muttered, trying not to think about the implications of this. 'Well…yeah. Thanks, I don't know why I'm so tired.'

'Most likely because it is five to midnight and your usual time to bed is exactly nine o'clock.'

'Oh Hell! I didn't realise it was so late.' John moaned, a part of him did the thinking required to wonder how Sherlock knew what time he went to bed even though they were in different houses.

'Evidently.' Muttered Sherlock handing him back his finished essay.

'I've got to get to bed then…Thanks, I'll see you in the morning if I ever wake up.' Scooping up his books, parchment, quill and ink, John stumbled off toward the library entrance. Sherlock followed him quietly, a hand on his back steadying the yawning blonde.

Sherlock supported him all the way to the Gryffindor common room, there he helped the exhausted boy through the portrait hole and whispering a 'goodnight' disappeared in a swirl of robes toward the Ravenclaw tower. The show of thoughtfulness had surprised Sherlock, trying to tell himself he had just been fulfilling his job as a friend he glowered to himself all the way to his dormitory. _Sentiment. Not good_. It seemed John was making himself into an exception, maybe, thought Sherlock, he could be, he could be _the _exception.


	2. Story 2

'What species of magic is considered the most powerful?' asked the raven-head doorknocker smoothly.

The small group of first year Ravenclaw's clustered around the thick wooden door and stared in wide-eyed silence; one of them, a tiny dark haired girl carrying a stack of books almost as tall as herself piped up, ' Do you think it means species as in curses compared to jinxes?' Her companions shrugged looking lost. Behind them, up swept a swirl of black and blue robes containing a tall, haughty-looking senior who brushed them aside.

'It's obvious isn't it? I do hope some of you first years have more brains than it appears.' The dark haired boy announced, then, addressing the door he said clearly, 'Love.'

'Precisely.' Answered the bronze head. The door swung open and the boy led in the trail of stumbling, open mouthed first years.

'Although some would be inclined to argue on that point.' The pale senior muttered as he moved briskly across the midnight blue carpet of the large, airy room. Snaking his way through the collection of chairs and tables, and ignoring the splendid views of the surrounding mountains bathed in pink and gold light he made his way toward and up the winding staircase to the dormitories.

Flinging his bag at the foot of the bed and tipping the armful of books to his bedside table the boy threw his skinny body backward to collapse onto the sky-blue covers. Withdrawing his wand from a sleeve he gave a casual wave causing the navy hangings to close around his prose form; tucking the wand back into place he relaxed into the bed placing his hands palm to palm under his chin and closing his blue-grey eyes.

Only minutes later it seemed, his thoughts were disturbed by a loud tapping. Opening his eyes, a look of frustration upon his sharp face he pushed himself into a sitting position and pushed apart the hangings with one long-fingered hand. Expecting an owl he was considerably surprised to see a black and red clad figure gripping a broomstick, illuminated by the last of the sun, rapping a fist upon the wide window between his bed and the next. The figure grinned massively at his shocked face and gestured excitedly for him to join him; recovering himself the dark haired boy grinned wickedly in return and leapt of the bed with an energy at odds to his recent motionless state. He grabbed his own nimbus 2001 from his trunk and wrapped a blue scarf around his neck as the other boy pulled out a wand and vanished the glass, the tall boy then folded himself and his broom out of the window and made a precarious jump, falling several feet before gaining control of his broom and rising up again.

'John!' he exclaimed, 'School would certainly be dull without you around! What on earth are we doing?!'

'A compliment from you Sherlock!? My life is complete!' the sandy haired boy grinned, he returned the window to its original non-permeable state then turned and shot past the gangly wizard yelling over his shoulder, 'Come on! Follow me!' Sherlock pulled his broom around and bent low over it, accelerating after the Gryffindor.

The two blurs merged together as the pair looped across the smooth, grass covered grounds, they flew dangerously close together in an attempt to out-perform each other. John's whoops echoed across the shadowy grounds, the sun was sinking behind the jagged peaks and twilight was rapidly descending, the vast expanse of the lake was already a silky black. The pair glided toward the Quidditch Pitch, its soaring towers and stands were cloaked in shadow now but they could still see clearly the yellow blurs shooting back and forth above the dark grass. John had drawn to a halt at the edge of the stands, hovering a few feet above the topmost seats and was peering down, eyes following a chaser with a long blonde ponytail. Sherlock looped him then drew in beside John, searching the shorter boy's face, 'Attracted to number five are we?'

'Uh, I just reckon she's a very good player.' John muttered, blushing slightly. Sherlock leaned in even closer then drew back looking victorious.

'You're blushing, you're voice deepened and you can't take your eyes of her! Don't insult my intelligence, it's rather obvious you feel some form of physical attraction toward her. But I wouldn't get excited, it seems she is rather taken with Heslop.'

Simon Heslop was a particularly good-looking sixth year who played keeper for Hufflepuff, with his wavy blonde hair, chiselled face and impressive height it didn't take a genius to understand why he got all the girls. John felt his hope fade, there was no way Hufflepuff's best chaser would go for him compared to Heslop.

'I…I yes, well' John coughed, 'How can you possibly know she's interested in him?' John tore his eyes away from the chaser and looked questioningly at Sherlock. The taller boy sighed.

'I'm sure even you noticed the way she repeatedly flies back toward the keeper and is showing off where he can see her. Admittedly, it's almost impressive how she's focussing on appearing skilled rather than dropping the quaffle out of nerves. She's good.' He gave a nod in her direction, 'Also her hair is tied in more than a casual ponytail, and she's put some effort into it. Yesterday at breakfast you probably didn't notice…'

'But I'm sure you did.'

'Yes, I did. She chose to eat toast instead of her usual scrambled eggs, this was evidently because of her close vicinity to Heslop, she strove to appear ladylike and tidy, a feat that would have been made considerably harder by the eggs.'

Sherlock looked around at John to see how he would take this inflow of information. The blonde exhaled loudly, then smiled at Sherlock through the gathering darkness.

'I'm not going to ask how you know what her preferred breakfast is... You've probably catalogued everyone's.' He chuckled. Sherlock gave him a crooked grin. 'Well, I don't know where I'd be without all your amazing deductions, probably making a right fool of myself. Unfortunately I don't stand a chance against a guy like him.'

'Why would you think that?' Sherlock looked at him in confusion. John snorted, then noticing the other boy's genuine bewilderment he elaborated.

'Well look at him! He's attractive and muscular, older, and he's a damn good keeper. And he's taller than me.'

'I'm taller than you.'

'Yeah, but you're skinny.' John snickered. Sherlock looked affronted.

'I'm naturally slim, it doesn't mean I don't have muscles.' Sherlock muttered. He gave John a sly look, 'I think you hold a chance against Heslop though, most girls seem to think you're quite attractive.' John gaped at him.

'Say what? Who? Who thinks I'm attractive?' John cried excitedly, Sherlock gave him an evil grin then bent low over his broom and shot off into the murky darkness back toward the castle. 'Oi! Tell me you bastard!' john yelled chasing after him, he knew this was payback for calling him skinny but there was still the chance the Ravenclaw had heard or noticed something.

The castle towered up above the racing boys, its dark face covered in pinpricks of light. Sherlock was heading directly at the massive front doors, he whipped out his wand and they flew open. Shooting into the bright entrance hall with John on his tail he made a sharp left causing a gaggle of second year Slytherin's to scream and duck, John wasn't quite so careless about the other students and so pulled his broom to a stop and tried to figure out where Sherlock would be heading and whether he could cut him off.

'Watson!' Came a heated yell from below, 'Get down here this instant, I don't know _what_ you think you are doing!' John descended carefully, why was it always him who got caught?

'Professor McGonagall, I was only….you see…please don't give me detention' He moaned, 'It wasn't my fault.'

'Then whose fault is it Mr Watson? I don't see anybody else acting like a hooligan.' Her mouth had formed a thin line and her eyes were extremely angry.

'It was Sher….I mean it was just me Professor, I am very sorry and it will not happen again.' John realised his mistake and mumbled to his shoes, twisting his broomstick in his hands. McGonagall peered at him beadily for a moment.

'Well, touching as it is your loyalty to your friend, I am afraid both you and Mr Holmes will present yourselves outside my office tomorrow evening at 7 o'clock precisely to serve your detentions' John nodded shamefully in response. 'Off to dinner now Mr Watson and do not forget to inform Mr Holmes.' With this the Professor swept away into the great hall.


	3. Story 3

'Joooohn. I'm Bored.'

'Uhuh.'

'John.'

'Uhuh.'

'I get this feeling you're not listening to me.'

'Uhuh.'

'Yes. It seems my deductions are correct.' The dark haired wizard rolled out from under the table where he had been lying in an attempt to alleviate the boredom. On his hands and knees, Sherlock glared up at John who was reading and completely ignoring him. Sherlock pouted and opened his mouth to complain again, when another idea came to mind, he grinned slyly instead.

Crawling quietly back under the table he approached John's legs, testing the temperature of his hands on his own forehead he giggled, they were nice and freezing cold. Shuffling forward slightly until John's leather clad feet were right next to him, Sherlock lowered his head and peered up the trouser legs in front of him. Good, his socks weren't too long, and there was a nice, hand-sized bit of skin within arm's reach. Wiggling his fingers in anticipation, Sherlock delicately manoeuvred his pale hands under the material, careful not to rustle the robes. Then he grabbed the two ankles with an iron, ice-cold grip and was rewarded with a muffled yell from above. He held his grip for about three seconds then shuffled quickly away from the flailing legs, rising up into his own seat just as John looked under the table for the culprit. Sherlock grabbed a random book out of John's hefty pile and arranged himself on the bench to look like he'd been there all the time.

By the time John had resurfaced, Sherlock was deeply engrossed in _Unfogging the Future _looking bored like usual. John glared at him in silence for a few moments.

'Well? You've got my attention now.' The blonde stated frostily. Sherlock looked up from his book, his face a picture of polite innocence.

'I'm sorry?' He questioned, looking for all the world like he had no idea what was going on. John growled.

'Look. I know you're bored, but honestly, there is nothing I can do. So why don't you, I don't know, go for a walk or something because obviously it is very boring being around me.'

'I'm not bored.'

'Sherlock. Five seconds ago you were hiding under the table and grabbing my legs with your cold hands, and know you're telling me that wasn't because you were bored?'

'It wasn't me.'

'Really? So you're just reading my divination book because you hate the subject so much and the cobwebs in your hair are just for decoration. I see.' At his last observation Sherlock leapt up, dropping the book with a thud.

'Cobwebs? In my hair!? Get them off get them off!' He squealed, dancing on the spot and shaking his head frantically. John chuckled.

'Stop making such a scene you pansy. Come over here, I'll get them out for you.' John gestured him over, trying not to laugh too obviously at his friend's discomfort. Sherlock all but hurdled the table in his anxiousness to get to John, sticking his head in the latter's face, he started to tap his fingers nervously. John picked his way through the thick, dark hair, removing all traces of the cobwebs carefully.

'John I'm bored.'

'Yeah, it's your natural state of being mate.' John muttered. Sherlock paused to think this over.

'What's yours?'

'My what?'

"Natural state of being.'

'Oh. I dunno, tired maybe.'

'No. It's more like optimistic, or cheerful, warm…' Sherlock trailed off into silence, thinking. John half smiled, his genius was entertained – momentarily.

'There. No more cobwebs.' He affectionately patted the curly head and stood up.


End file.
